


Dessert

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 04:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14783331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Meludir offers to serve his king.





	Dessert

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

When the feast is finished for the night, the lords retire to their private hall—a smaller, more intimate space just off the main dining room. The walls are carved like many branching trees, and golden candles are set about them like glowing flowers, casting warm patterns across the towering ceiling. Servants mill about both places to wordlessly collect the dishes, delivering more food and wine into the new location. Meludir, having eaten with the guard, should take his leave. The rest of the archers do. But he had enough time after his shift to change into looser, lighter robes, more suited to the idle lives of the serving staff than the hardened warrior he is. When all his companions have trickled away, Meludir drifts towards a thick brunette with a bottle of red wine and asks, “Is that for the king?”

“Yes,” she answers, too busy loading half-empty glasses onto her tray to really look at him. That’s all he needs to know.

He plucks the bottle off the tray, and before she can protest, he smiles, as disarming and charming as he can manage. “May I serve it for you?”

She gives him a once-over with her eyes. She must know he’s not on staff, at least, not her branch of staff, but he doubts his request could be _that_ unusual. Surely he isn’t the first to take any chance at proximity to their lord, and finally, she nods. Meludir bows his head in thanks and sweeps towards the wide oak doors set behind the head table. One is already ajar, and Meludir has no trouble slipping through.

The hall beyond is as beautiful as he imagined from the short glimpses he gleaned from his table. He’s only been invited in a handful of times, usually with the rest of his patrol, after dinner and drinks, and occasionally on his own when he’s managed to catch his king’s eye. This is the first time he’s entered as a server, but he plays his part well, drifting silently around the room to present the wine bottle to King Thranduil. 

Thranduil has his elbow on the armrest of his chair, chin cradled atop his knuckles, eyes bored as his royal treasurer drones on to him. Meludir doesn’t dare interrupt the conversation, just gestures with the bottle. Thranduil’s dazzling silver eyes flicker to him, and with a curt nod, the order’s given. Meludir pours it obediently into his king’s waiting cup.

As the treasurer finishes her litany, an advisor draws her into a different conversation. Thranduil doesn’t follow it, instead drifting to Meludir’s poised body. Meludir does his best not to blush too hotly under such intensity. He did his best to prepare—he combed his hair to perfection, fit a single flower behind his left ear, powdered his face and donned the thinnest robes he had. His young body is well toned from his duties, and he keeps care of the look of it. But _Thranduil_ is in another league entirely, and Meludir isn’t so vain to think his king an easy conquest.

The glass full, Meludir straightens again, arching as gracefully as he can manage. Because Thranduil’s heated gaze remains on him, he dares to murmur, his own eyes on the floor, “May I provide you anything else, my king?”

Thranduil doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches out, his long fingers gathering the sash at Meludir’s waist. Meludir’s breath hitches, and he shifts his hips almost imperceptibly forward, offering permission.

Thranduil tugs, and the sash falls loose. Meludir’s robes part down to his naval, the lower folds only just holding together. With his lithe chest fully exposed, Meludir fights his racing pulse and quickening breath. Thranduil’s eyes roam his body without shame, and each second that passes with them still glued to him, Meludir’s excitement mounts. But his king is _always_ exciting, whether he’s paid little attention over dinner or ravished like an animal in the stables. The memories of Thranduil’s touch make him burn with sharp desire.

It doesn’t matter that the rest of the court can see him. None of the other lords make any comment at his state of undress. Meludir ignores them, focusing only on the one elf who matters, until Thranduil idly drawls, “I will take this... but in my chambers, when I am finished here.”

Meludir bites the inside of his mouth. It’s the only way to keep from grinning too broadly. He fights to stay demure. He dips into a low bow and resists the urge to stay there—down on his knees before his king. When he rises again, he draws his robes back around himself. 

He leaves the wine at the table and withdraws from the private hall. He hurries to his own chambers first to prepare himself, and then he readies and awaits his king.


End file.
